


Propeller

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco comes to Neville when he needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propeller

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Apparently I forgot to cross-post my last daily_deviant, oops :I. This is also not properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

Neville knows who it is before he turns around—there’s only one person in Hogwarts who refuses to knock when it comes to his office door. He bothers to look anyway, because that first view is always worth it.

Draco Malfoy always waits too long. He slips into Neville’s office without any of the usual grace, slamming the door shut behind himself with unusual force, and he fumbles with the lock before cursing under his breath, and finally Neville takes pity on him and comes over to help. Neville twists the handle once and pushes Draco’s thinner, paler hands away, assuring him, “It’s locked.”

Draco nods. He doesn’t look like he’s listening, doesn’t even look at Neville. He stands there, nearly trembling, and crosses his arms over his chest, squeezing his shoulders. Neville knows what he came for and has no trouble giving it. Neville considers starting things, but then the bitter child in him rises up, and he just goes back to his desk. He doesn’t hold grudges as long as some of his friends. But Draco was still a pain in the ass all those years, and now that Draco comes to him for _help_ , Neville doesn’t want to make it any easier. 

Neville manages to grade half a paper before Draco seems to make up his mind. He has other options, Neville’s sure. Other people he could go to. He hates all their peers—including Neville—but he could probably find someone in Hogsmeade, or Floo anywhere else. Lots of people would jump at the chance to dominate an irritating ex-Death Eater, even one fully pardoned. But Draco always comes _here_ , and now Neville thinks that, even if Draco will never admit it, Neville’s his first choice. 

He does come, but stiffly, like he’s still deciding. At least he doesn’t bother to say it aloud anymore—Neville’s a Gryffindor, one of Potter’s friends, used to be clumsy and foolish and ugly, but at least he’s a pureblood. That’s the only compliment Draco gives with his mouth. The rest of him admits other things. He marches to the desk and pushes Neville’s quill and stack of papers aside, and Neville lets his things be rearranged—he’s not as picky as Draco. He lets Draco push him back enough from the desk for there to be room, and then he lets Draco straddle his lap.

For a full-grown man, Draco isn’t that heavy. His knees dig into the sides of Neville’s chair, jammed between Neville’s thighs and the armrests, and he lays his hands tentatively on Neville’s broader shoulders. He looks down at Neville with a flushed scowl. He can never do things the easy way.

The first time—a week after he was hired for Potions and Neville for Herbology—he marched right into Greenhouse Four where Neville was gardening, pushed Neville back and demanded this happen, and that was it. Neville was a mix of annoyed and hungry and Draco was the easiest lay he ever got, and he took it hard, pouring revenge into every brutal thrust as he slammed Draco’s pearly flesh into the dirt. When it was over and Draco’s heat was satisfied, he left again without a word, and Neville sat there in a wealth of satisfaction and confusion.

It took them months to kiss, months longer to talk, but even now it isn’t much, and they hardly say anything outside of these moments, when the heat comes and sweeps Draco away. Draco hardly even looks at him. Half the malice left Draco with the war, the rest in this strange “relationship” they’ve forged. He glares at Neville now like he’s _angry_ that Neville lets him do this. Neville lays careful hands on Draco’s hips and doesn’t bother to hide any of his own lust. Even without the rage of pheromones that waft off Draco’s ripe form, Draco’s body is _beautiful_ , too luxurious in Neville’s calloused hands. He never would’ve guessed this.

But he’s not surprised when Draco gives in, leans down and brushes their lips together. It’s chaste at first, Draco’s restraint palpable, but then he stops caring about houses and friendships and their past and grinds so hard into Neville that the chair nearly topples backwards. Neville can taste what Draco wants and pries Draco’s lips open with his tongue. They kiss in a messy fervor while Draco rolls his hips into Neville’s, giving away just how desperate he is. 

Neville _wants_ Draco in these moments, wholly and utterly, still does sometimes in others when Draco will say something funny or make incredible potions out of his plants. This is where it starts. He kisses Draco with everything he has, the alpha in him surging forward to _claim_ this vulnerable creature for his own, but he holds that part of him back as much as he can. Part of the reason they work is that Neville lets Draco get what he wants, and sooner or later, Draco always tries to take it. 

Draco slides his hands down Neville’s chest, squeezes at his pecs through his sweatervest, moans into Neville’s mouth and runs lower, working frantically at Neville’s belt. He yanks open Neville’s trousers and dives unabashedly inside, fingers grazing Neville’s hardening cock. Draco has such delicate, skillful hands. He squeezes Neville just enough to earn a groan, and then he lifts higher on his knees and hurriedly pushes down his own skin-tight trousers. Neville never has the wherewithal to help. His hands run down from Draco’s waist purely to grab Draco’s ass, which makes Draco keen so prettily.

Shifting but still kissing, Draco pulls out Neville’s cock and positions himself over it. Neville can feel between Draco’s taut cheeks that he’s wet—always is for Neville—and his hole is flexing open, wider and wider until Draco’s pressing down on Neville’s tip. It takes everything Neville has not to thrust up and impale Draco in one go. He doesn’t want to ruin what they have. He lets Draco descend onto him, still too fast, but slower than Neville would go. The second the head’s inside, Neville’s growling into Draco’s mouth, clawing at Draco’s waist. Draco’s moan is absolutely filthy. He clenches his ass around Neville’s tip and keeps trying to go further. The deeper Neville sinks, the more he wants to push Draco down to the floor and fuck him hard against it. Finally, Draco’s fully seated, and he buries Neville in a plethora of deep kisses before he starts to move.

By now, they’ve had it every way. It used to be all hard, but they’ve gone slow, gone long, had quick little things that satiate Draco’s heat for a time but still have him returning later. He’s ridden Neville’s lap, been taken on all fours, laid back on Neville’s earth with Neville facing him, been fucked against walls, over chairs, hiked up onto a planter. Sometimes Neville wishes they could plan this—could try proper beds, or at least couches, but there are none in the greenhouses and it’s always _Draco coming to him_ , and he’s not sure if they have enough to merit anywhere else. Draco never comes outside of heat. But then, there’ve been one or two times when Neville was sure, _so sure_ , that Draco was _lying_ and wasn’t in heat at all.

Draco starts grinding into Neville again, first in little, staccato thrusts, and then full, rolling ones that press everything together. He lifts up, pushes down, engulfs himself again and squeezes tight around Neville’s cock, even though he’s already _so tight, so hot._ Nothing ever feels as good as fucking Draco. Whenever Neville touches himself, he always thinks of this. 

He holds onto Draco but lets Draco do all the work. Draco bounces in Neville’s lap like he lives to be here. Every place they touch betrays Draco’s feelings. He kisses Neville like this is _personal_ , and he doesn’t just hold steady, but runs greedy hands all over Neville, sliding up under his shirt and back around his neck, occasionally tilting Neville’s head to kiss at different angles. Draco rides him mercilessly, and when the kisses end, it’s only so Draco can lean his forehead against Neville’s and gasp up air. His eyes are closed, but Neville nips at Draco’s cheek and bites his jaw until he opens them. They’re so dilated the black almost eats all of the silver. Neville holds that gaze as long as Draco lets him. Draco’s trembling. Neville wants to say, _we could be together, this could be always,_ but then Draco kisses him again.

It’s a long, excruciatingly perfect time that Draco fills himself with Neville. If Neville could, he’d make this last forever. But he finishes first, less practiced and unable to hold back from how irresistible a writhing, wanton Draco is. He spills himself in Draco’s body and roars into Draco’s mouth, Draco whimpering against him and riding him all the harder.

As soon as Neville wraps a hand around Draco’s cock, Draco’s finished. He comes with a little cry, pulling back from Neville’s mouth and painting Neville’s stomach. Neville pumps him right out and kisses his face. He’s impossibly pretty mid-orgasm. It almost makes up for the rest of his sins. 

When he comes down, Draco doesn’t lift off. He leans forward into Neville’s shoulder, breathing laboured. Neville gently strokes his back. Now the heat and tightness is almost painful, but Neville endures it for the sense of closeness. Draco nuzzles into him, not kissing anymore but still bizarrely affectionate, the way any omega would be in the arms of _their alpha._

Neville could be that, he thinks. He might’ve been that a long time ago, if they were in the same house and Draco had turned to his muscle instead of Goyle’s. Of course, he didn’t have much muscle back then. He didn’t have any confidence. He wasn’t much of anything, but Draco was awful too, and they’ve both grown better. 

Draco bites his ear. Neville grunts and wonders if that’s a possessive sort of marking thing or just vindictiveness. Draco lifts up after, Neville sliding out of him, and then he clambers unsteadily off of Neville’s lap and fixes his trousers. There are no words this time. The heat’s gone; Neville can see that on Draco’s face. Draco looks at him, and for a moment, Neville gets the distinct impression that Draco’s waiting for him to say something. 

Neville was never any good with words. He mutters numbly, “Feel better?”

Draco nods stiffly, then takes on the pinched look of annoyance he does whenever Neville says the wrong thing. He turns for the door and adds a dismissive, “Longbottom.”

He’s already out into the hall before Neville finally forces himself to get up and follow.


End file.
